” He recovered himself. But I'm sure it's important. "And now," he continued, sternly, "was it your master who has just ridden by?" "No," answered Quilt, sullenly. Very slowly, very fearfully, she turned her head. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions.
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